The thing about a failed drug test is that the result doesn't just show up in a cup—
it shows up in every corner of your life.
They say relapse is part of recovery.
The system says relapse is proof you're not ready.
It didn't take long.
By the next day, my phone rang.
The number on the screen was familiar
and dreaded
and cold.
I answered anyway, bracing myself like someone preparing for a blow they can't dodge.
"Kristen, this is your caseworker. We need to discuss your latest test."
My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might throw up.
Silence stretched between us like a rope tightening.
Finally she said it:
"You tested positive."
The words weren't loud, but they felt like they slammed against the walls of my chest.
She said it like she was reading a weather report.
Like it didn't have the power to rip my heart out.
Before I could respond, she added,
"Because of this, your visits will be reduced. And the department will be updating your case plan."
Reduced.
Updated.
In system language, those words mean:
Punishment disguised as procedure.
I closed my eyes, feeling the burn behind them.
"Please… I messed up, but I'm trying."
She exhaled—annoyed, bored, or just done with me, I couldn't tell.
"Mistakes have consequences. You need to take this seriously."
As if I didn't wake up every day with the weight of my girls on my chest.
As if I didn't already drown in guilt.
As if wanting to be better wasn't the reason I'd even gone to the test knowing I'd fail.
Suddenly I hated how calm she sounded.
How easy it was for her to say things that would break me.
She continued,
"You'll need to complete an additional six-week outpatient program. More classes. More testing."
More hoops.
More chances to fail.
More ways to bury me under proof that I wasn't perfect.
But the next part?
That one cut the deepest.
"The department will be recommending supervised-only visits for the foreseeable future. No physical contact unless approved."
No contact.
With my own children.
Because of one slip.
It felt like someone punched straight into my chest and pulled out my ribs.
I whispered, "You can't do that…"
"We can," she said. "And we are."
---
When I got off the phone, the house felt different again—
not empty this time,
but hostile.
Every room seemed to echo with the same taunting question:
What have you done?
I wanted to scream.
Cry.
Run.
Disappear.
Instead, I sat on the floor, legs pulled to my chest, letting the truth sink in like poison.
One relapse had cost me weeks of progress.
One relapse had changed how they looked at me.
One relapse had reshaped the way the system would talk about me in meetings where I wasn't allowed to speak.
I could almost hear them:
"Mother has shown she isn't stable."
"Mother continues to make poor choices."
"Mother is failing to prioritize her sobriety."
Never once acknowledging the effort it took to get up every day.
Never acknowledging trauma.
Never acknowledging how deeply I loved my girls.
In their world, a mistake was a weakness.
In mine, it was a bruise.
But the worst consequence came during my next visit.
I walked into the room, heart pounding, ready to hold them close and tell them Mama was trying.
But the worker stopped me at the door.
"No hugs today," she said without looking up. "Sit on this side of the table."
A table.
Between me and the children I birthed.
I sat down, hands trembling, trying not to fall apart.
When they brought my girls in, their eyes lit up—
Until they saw the setup.
My oldest hesitated, confused.
My youngest reached for me instinctively,
and the worker gently pulled her back.
"She can't climb in your lap today," the worker said.
The pain on my daughter's face—
that confusion,
that sadness,
that tiny frown she tried to hide—
it shattered something inside me so permanently I swear I felt the crack travel straight through my spine.
"Mama?" she whispered.
She didn't understand rules or relapse or case plans.
She just wanted her mother.
And I had to sit there, hands folded in my lap, fighting tears, pretending I wasn't dying inside.
I nodded toward the empty chair beside me.
"You can sit there, baby."
She climbed up quietly, lost in the kind of sadness a child should never know.
My oldest finally asked,
"Why can't we hug today?"
I opened my mouth—
and nothing came out.
The worker stepped in like she was doing me a favor.
"Your mom needs to work on some things right now."
My oldest stared at me, big eyes filled with hurt.
"Did you do something bad?"
That question killed me.
Slaughtered me.
Tore me apart molecule by molecule.
Because it came from a place of innocence—
and a place the system had slowly shaped.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to fight.
Instead, I whispered,
"I'm still learning, baby. But I'm not giving up."
---
When the visit ended, the worker tapped her pen against the clipboard and said, as if discussing the weather,
"We'll review your progress in a month."
A month.
Of limited contact.
Of more classes.
Of more scrutiny.
Of more fear that one misstep would cost me even more.
Walking out of that building, I realized something brutal:
The system didn't just punish the relapse.
It punished the love.
It punished my daughters' loyalty.
Their attachment.
Their hope.
And it punished the part of me that still believed I deserved to be their mother.
But there was another truth buried under all that pain:
They were still mine.
And I wasn't done fighting.
Not by a long shot.